


Lyna Mahariel Drabbles

by RittaPokie



Series: Tales From the Dragon Age [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:36:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RittaPokie/pseuds/RittaPokie





	1. Dalish, Wear Clothes? No Way.

“So, what’s on the menu tonight?” Lyna asks Alistair as she removes her armor. “I’m starved.”

“Please, oh please say burned rabbit again, it’s my favorite!” Tyril says with very fake enthusiasm, laying with his eyes closed in the grass.

“You could cook, you kn-” Alistair stops dead in his sentence, prompting Tyril to open one eye to see what startled the blond.

He follows Alistair’s eyes to their pale elven leader and finds her completely naked, folding her clothes next to her armor. No smalls, Tyril notes, unsurprised.

Alistair is flushed to his ears. He stammers a minute, unable to find words to express something like “why are you naked” “are you trying to kill me” Tyril finds Alistair’s crush on Lyna-and of course he’s noticed, who hasn’t?-very adorable. Lyna is about as virgin as a dwarf is magical. So, not at all.

“Alistair?” Tyril asks, sitting up and grinning. “Cat got your tongue?"

“I-I-” he tries, and fails. “I need to go. Right now.” The words spill from him, but he looks confused with himself as he turns and walks into the treeline.

"Alistair, where-” Lyna looks baffled at Tyril. “Where’s he going?”

Tyril bites back a laugh. “Um.” He can feel the heat in his own cheeks, more from trying not to laugh than anything else. “Well, love, the Dalish may freely expose themselves, which is wonderful, but…”

“Is this not common in human society?” She asks, tilting her head to the side. “Really? But clothes are so uncomfortable…”

“It’s not common, no, though I wish it were.” Tyril laughs.

“Stop leering before I sheath my dagger where the sun doesn’t shine.” She looks down at her feet. “That sounded much less- I’ll stab you if you don’t cease your staring.” She crosses her arms and glares at him.

“Really shouldn’t arouse me, but anyway. I think you may have given our poor senior Grey Warden a fright. Seeing a beautiful woman in all her unclothed glory seems to have made things a bit…hard for him.” His face scrunches before he bursts into laughter at his own joke.

“You’re insufferable. If it bothers Alistair so much, I suppose I can wear something.” She sighs. “Or he can just get used to it.”


	2. The Good Chantry Boy

"Wh-what do I, y'know, do." The blond asks, and bites his lip.

"What do you want to do?" Lyna asks with a grin. "I'm yours." She reclines a bit where she's sitting on the edge of the bed, her feet swinging. She finds Alistair's inexperience absolutely adorable. She finds everything about him adorable, actually.

He hums thoughtfully and then sinks to his knees in front of her. There's a flush on his face that trails down his chest behind the cloth of his shirt. The elf lifts her feet and drapes her legs over his broad shoulders.  
"I like where this is going." She giggles, nudging him closer with a heel between his shoulders.

"This-is this okay?" He asks, gingerly running his hands over her thighs and pulling her closer.

"Whatever you want, love." She murmurs. She threads her fingers in his hair and pulls him closer, impatient, reveling in the choked noise he makes when she grips his hair tighter.


	3. Tamlen

The battle ends when Lyna plunges her blade deep into his chest with a sickly squelch. He drops to his knees and she is pulled down with him by her grip on the hilt of her dagger. She lets go of it and clasps his face in her hands. “Tamlen.” She whispers as she tilts him to meet her gaze. "Do you remember me? Bryn, do you?

There’s a sleepy smile on his face despite the pain he must be in. “Zella, Thank you.” He says, using her childhood name, strained and gurgly with the blood bubbling up from his throat.

“Vhenan, please do not leave me.” She whines, tears slipping down her cheeks. His grin widens and his eyes dance in their sockets for a second before he forces himself to focus on her. Rusca is not here so she must be the last he sees. The two of them are all that matter now and Rusca is safe with the clan, will be safe. Neither of them are alone. In this, he can find peace. He can die.

“I love you.” He says as she pulls him into a tight hug. He weakly puts an arm around her shoulders and it trembles with exertion. “Tell Taan I love him too, please?” He manages.

“Of course, vhenan.” She says, her eyes full of frenzy and tears. “Anything, anything."

He hums happily and his arm slips from around her as he goes limp in her grasp. “No, no, no, please.” She sobs, “Tamlen…”

\---

She has been crying for a solid hour, clutching his lifeless form in her arms. Soft, hiccuping sobs with tears streaming down her cheeks. Alistair can't stand it anymore. Can't stand to see the one most dear to him in the world suffer like this.

"Lyna..." He whispers, kneeling beside her. She holds her friend tighter, as if she fears he will take her away. That's what Duncan did, after all, in a sense. The thought of his mentor sends a pang of hurt through his body and he's never felt more sympathy for another person than at this very moment. Loss is still fresh in him too.

She practically wails when he brushes her hair out of her face. "You can't have him."

"I don't want to take him from you, but every minute he's not burned is putting our companions at risk. They're not immune to the taint." He says, and he hears the sadness in his own voice.

She nods, resigned. "I know. Creators, I know, but I-I..." She whines.

He's never seen her so broken, ever. It hurts. "We could bury his ashes after? Your custom is to plant a tree on the grave, right?"

She nods again, and sniffs. "Will anything grow over the taint?"

"We may need to put the ashes in something to keep it away from the roots, but it should... Maybe not here, where all the blood was spilled."

"But somewhere?"

"Somewhere. And we'll find it. And we'll give him the proper burial he deserves."

"I love you."

He almost wants to laugh, because they've never said it before. And now, over the darkspawn blood pooling around them, and death and sadness in their minds, will be their first. It's all too fitting for wardens, he thinks. "I love you too." He kisses her forehead. "May we say it again, in a better moment?"

"And we'll tell that story to others, but this one will be only ours."

"Lyna...we-" he glances at the ghoul in her arms.

"A few more moments, please."

"Of course."


	4. Lyna's Journal

I don't know why I agreed to do this, or why I'm doing this. The others fear my intensity. Or rather, they fear the dramatic changes within me from intense to...not. I admit, at times I'm overflowing with emotion, and other times I'm empty. I'm sure they think that it's because of Alistair. It isn't. It really, really isn't. Tamlen used to say I was a boiling pot, and once I'd boiled over, nothing was left inside but steam. I've written one entry and already I've mentioned both of them. Why did Josephine say this was a good idea?

 

They're not aware that I'm changing. Maybe my time is shorter because I got the Blight before becoming a Warden. Maybe it's because I stopped fighting for the past 10 years. Corypheus isn't causing my calling, my calling isn't false. I don't fear it. I should. It would be natural to fear it, but I don't. Death has never troubled me. Maybe that's why I took to the Warden way of life so naturally. Why I couldn't understand why Jory didn't want it. Why it didn't trouble me when I thought Tamlen was dead. Or when I had to slit that child's throat in Redcliffe. The deaths go on and on. There are piles of dead people in my past. Maybe the din knows I'm dying. He knew the signs in Rowan. My hair is turning white on the ends, falling out more than it should be. My gums bleed for nothing. And the dreams are so much worse.

 

I wouldn't trust Solas as far as I can throw him. No, I could probably throw him pretty far. He doesn't look like he weighs much. I don't trust him as far as I could throw the Iron Bull.

 

Many don't trust the din, and can you blame them? Honestly, no. I understand why they don't. He's dead, he's a mage, he was an elf, a warden, a darkspawn, an assassin. He's everything that no one trusts, all at the same time. Funnily enough, though, he's one of the most honest...things I've ever met. Perhaps being dead so long, he doesn't have the patience for lies anymore, or maybe he never did. Maybe it's the opposite, maybe he has enough patience for the truth. I think there'd be less hardship for him if he'd choose a name, as Cole has. He won't, though. He never had one, I think. He was born into slavery as an elf, then traveled to a land that hated magic as a mage, then became a warden, then died. I can't see any place in his life where anyone would've asked for his name, or given him one. He said the Avaar called him "Thorn-Crowned". He's very proud of it, more than one would consider appropriate. That alone leads me to believe that it's the only name anyone has ever given him, the only time anyone has bothered. It's sad, really.

 

Harellan. She wants what she's always wanted. Daughter of Asha'belannar. Harellan wants immortality. I thought once that we were friends, sisters even. I was wrong. I will not be tricked again. Ilo is far too kind and tender to be making deals with a witch.

 

Fen'Harel ma ghilana, Ilo. Ma ghilana mir din'an.

 

Harellan. Era'harel.

 

Ir abelas. Ma vhenan. Ma melava halani. Ma serannas. Dareth shiral. Ar lath ma.


	5. I Know You Wolf

"Solas." Lyna whispers, leaning up onto her toes on the ladder to poke him. " _Solas_." He grumbles and curls tighter into a ball. She pokes him harder. " _Fen'Harel._ " She breathes against his ear.  
  
He tenses and sits up. She grins. Grins at the venom in his eyes. Grins at how it contrasts with the brightly colored paints dried under his fingernails. Grins at the way she can see him considering pushing her off the ladder. There's  _danger_ here, danger she hasn't felt since facing down the Fifth Blight, danger she craves with every beat of her heart. She knows that she is playing with fire. She slides down the ladder before he decides and walks into the main hall.  
  
It's mostly empty, save scattered nobles dozing drunkenly in the pews. Moonlight bathes all she can see and Mabari down in their pens howl up at the full of the moon. She has known for weeks, suspected since the moment she arrived, but she waited 'til the full moon and the witching hour so that there would be no questioning that she  _knows_. She can feel his eyes on her as he trails behind up stairs to a secluded corner of the battlements. So much of the fortress is untended and unused still, perfect for secret moonlit meetings. Perfect for wolves and ravens. She stops there and breathes deeply, taking in the crisp mountain air and letting it puff out in wispy clouds, keeping her back to him. Posturing to show she doesn't feel he could match her, no matter who he is, should he try.  
  
"So, Dread Wolf." She murmurs as he comes to stand beside her. "I take it you do not remember me."  
  
"Should I?" His voice is full of ire. She glances into the bluish gray of his eyes and quirks her lips at the hint of fear she finds there, then turns her gaze back to the open horizon before them.  
  
"I knew your voice was familiar." She continues, "We met years ago, in the fade. I was barely two years old, the beginnings of a dreamer. I was lost and alone."  
  
"The one who couldn't speak." He muses, forgetting their game, letting his guard falter. "You found your voice, I see."  
  
"A wolf with voice like silk led me home." She says, "You were the wolf. You used the form carelessly because you thought we would never meet again."  
  
"Fate, it seems, had other plans." He is defensive, the fear in his eyes growing beyond his control. "What do you plan to do with this knowledge?"  
  
"I could rally the clans, have you slaughtered as any other wolf that doesn't know his place, doesn't keep his nose out of things he doesn't belong in. As any other traitor." she offers.  
  
" _You?_ Rally the elves?" He spits, "What makes you think that  _you_ would succeed where so many others failed? What makes you think that  _you_ could kill  _me?_ " She meets his eyes directly for the first time since she woke him, expression twisting in anger. A growl rises from her throat and she slaps him, hard enough to make him recoil and stumble a few steps backward. He glares at her in disgust before she slams him against the wall. She can hear magic buzzing on his fingertips, can feel it awakening the lyrium in her own blood. A chill rolls through her senses, a warning, not enough to hurt. A wicked smile cracks her face at his mercy, at his willingness to let her go even as he believes she would slit his throat without a second thought, without sympathy.  
  
"Yes,  _me_." She hisses, teeth grinding from the cold. "I will take you apart at the seams." She slides to her knees before him, stunning him with surprise long enough that she can yank his pants down to his knees. Energy buzzes around her again, but he does not stop her. He could. His centuries with magic outmatches any training she has had over the years. "I can break you." He's soft when she moves her fingers over him, but not unresponsive. He watches her with rapt attention and curious eyes.  
  
"Big talk, for someone on their knees." He says, but his breaths are shorter as she strokes him in her hands.  
  
"I am strongest here." She murmurs, letting a heating spell loose from her hands, letting the warmth soak through them both and undoing the cold he put in her veins. "I will leave you wrecked and wanting. Remember that you are not the first lost god I have faced." she nuzzles the indent of his hip, teeth scraping over the flesh there and catching on the bone. "I won before, did I not?"  
  
"I doubt you did this with the Arch-Demon." He says, chuckling softly. "Though I think I'd be impressed."  
  
"Different gods demand different attentions." She smiles at his lowering defenses and sucks him softly for a moment before pulling away and standing, pushing into his personal space. She rolls onto the balls of her feet to be at eye level. "Wrecked and wanting." She repeats. Her face is flushed from the spell and from the power she has gained.  
  
A growl rumbles from his lips and he turns them, pressing her to the wall with their fingers linked. "You have no power." he growls. "Not here."  
  
She laughs, "The fade doesn't care that you're a god. We are all spirits here."


	6. I Love Yous At All the Wrong Times

The battle ends when Lyna plunges her blade deep into his chest with a sickly squelch. He drops to his knees and she is pulled down with him by her grip on the hilt of her dagger. She lets go of it and clasps his face in her hands. “Tamlen.” She whispers as she tilts him to meet her gaze. “Do you remember me? Bryn, do you?

There’s a sleepy smile on his face despite the pain he must be in. “Zella, Thank you.” He says, using her childhood name, strained and gurgly with the blood bubbling up from his throat.

“Vhenan, please do not leave me.” She whines, tears slipping down her cheeks. His grin widens and his eyes dance in their sockets for a second before he forces himself to focus on her. Rusca is not here so she must be the last he sees. The two of them are all that matter now and Rusca is safe with the clan, will be safe. Neither of them are alone. In this, he can find peace. He can die.

“I love you.” He says as she pulls him into a tight hug. He weakly puts an arm around her shoulders and it trembles with exertion. “Tell Taan I love him too, please?” He manages.

“Of course, vhenan.” She says, her eyes full of frenzy and tears. “Anything, anything.”

He hums happily and his arm slips from around her as he goes limp in her grasp. “No, no, no, please.” She sobs, “Tamlen…”

\---

She has been crying for a solid hour, clutching his lifeless form in her arms. Soft, hiccuping sobs with tears streaming down her cheeks. Alistair can’t stand it anymore. Can’t stand to see the one most dear to him in the world suffer like this.

“Lyna…” He whispers, kneeling beside her. She holds her friend tighter, as if she fears he will take her away. That’s what Duncan did, after all, in a sense. The thought of his mentor sends a pang of hurt through his body and he’s never felt more sympathy for another person than at this very moment. Loss is still fresh in him too.

She practically wails when he brushes her hair out of her face. “You can’t have him.”

“I don’t want to take him from you, but every minute he’s not burned is putting our companions at risk. They’re not immune to the taint.” He says, and he hears the sadness in his own voice.

She nods, resigned. “I know. Creators, I know, but I-I…” She whines.

He’s never seen her so broken, ever. It hurts. “We could bury his ashes after? Your custom is to plant a tree on the grave, right?”

She nods again, and sniffs. “Will anything grow over the taint?”

“We may need to put the ashes in something to keep it away from the roots, but it should… Maybe not here, where all the blood was spilled.”

“But somewhere?”

“Somewhere. And we’ll find it. And we’ll give him the proper burial he deserves.”

“I love you.” She sobs again. He gets the feeling she never said it to the one in her arms.

He almost wants to laugh, because they’ve never said it before. And now, over the darkspawn blood pooling around them, and death and sadness in their minds, will be their first. It’s all too fitting for wardens, he thinks. “I love you too.” He kisses her forehead. “May we say it again, in a better moment?”

“And we’ll tell that story to others, but this one will be only ours.”

“Lyna…we-” he glances at the ghoul in her arms.

“A few more moments, please.”

He nods. “Of course.”


	7. Arlas'Revas

Her host lies sleeping within, too pained and damaged from the birth to survive on her own. She can feel the weak stirring of her long-time friend, so she does not fear.

She lifts the infant with still bloody hands and looks it over. The tiny boy had been terribly quiet at first, but after some coaxing, she had gotten him to breathe and cry. Now, he is silent again. Though he is unusually tiny, there is nothing she can see to be immediately concerned about.

The thought catches her of the curse upon her host, and what significance this child could hold in eighteen years. The Wolf could take Ferelden, if he pleased, with this baby. With a frown, she wonders at the softness of the small form in her hands. It would be easy to crush him and save the world from that possibility.

He turns his head when she slips her fingers around his throat, revealing pointed ears. She removes her hand immediately. "Ah, there is no need." Her voice is softer and more rhythmic than his mother's, and he seems to realize that he is not being held by the spirit that belongs in this body. His arms flails and he whimpers. "Hush, child. You will not go on to do the things I feared."

She studies the blond in her arms carefully. That he is so elven in appearance must mean that the new king of Ferelden carries elven blood himself. "Interesting." She thinks aloud. "What sort of life will you lead, then?" She asks, though she knows he cannot answer.

The baby calms down in her arms, grabbing her finger when she offers it. "I am wisdom, infinite in my abilities to teach. I have served your mother since she was not much older than you are, and I think I shall serve you as well." She says. "Your mother is not here to name you, so I shall. Arlas'Revas. Grant us freedom, little one."


End file.
